The alarm buzzed sharply at 5 a.m., splitting the darkness like a blade. Taro silenced it with a quick swipe, sitting up with a low groan. His muscles ached—his shoulders stiff, his legs heavy, his back protesting as he stretched—but he welcomed it. The pain wasn't a setback. It was progress.
He didn't linger.
By now, the routine was etched into his bones. Taro laced up his running shoes, tying the knots tighter than usual, like he could lock his resolve into place. The room was still dark as he grabbed his t-shirt and stepped outside, his breath immediately fogging in the sharp, cold air.
The world felt empty, the silence absolute. Taro exhaled slowly, the weight in his chest less noticeable than it had been on Monday. Then, he ran.
The route had become familiar—down the quiet residential streets, where the windows were still dark and curtains drawn. The convenience store sat where it always did, its flickering sign buzzing faintly against the quiet. He passed it without slowing.
The hill came next, looming like a wall in the faint light of pre-dawn. Taro didn't hesitate. His steps pounded against the pavement, every muscle in his legs screaming as he climbed.
Push.
The incline seemed endless, the pull in his calves burning like fire, but he didn't stop. By the time he reached the top, his breath came in sharp bursts, fogging in the cold air. The city sprawled below him, a sea of gray rooftops and empty streets waiting for the sun to rise.
He didn't pause to look.
The descent was faster, smoother. The overgrown park flashed past him, its iron gates creaking faintly as he ran by. Finally, he reached the cracked basketball court, its rusted hoop crooked against the faint glow of dawn. Taro slowed, his shoes skidding slightly as he turned his head to glance at it.
He didn't stop.
Not yet.
By the time he stumbled back through the front door, his shirt clung to his back, sweat dripping steadily from his forehead. He paused in the entryway, his hands on his knees, before pulling himself upright and wiping his face with the edge of his shirt. The faint smell of breakfast pulled him toward the kitchen.
Taro stepped through the front door. His sweat-drenched shirt clung to his back, the damp fabric sticking to his skin as he walked into the kitchen.
Mama was already at the stove, the sizzle of eggs and faint smell of garlic filling the room. She glanced over her shoulder as he entered, her sharp eyes narrowing in mock suspicion.
"You're back earlier," she said, flipping the pan effortlessly. "Did the hill win this time?"
Taro snorted, dropping into his seat at the table and draping the hoodie across the back of the chair. "Not a chance, though it's still tough."
Sofija smirked as she set a glass of water in front of him. "Uh huh, What about you? You still breathing?"
"Barely," Taro admitted, taking a long sip of water. "But breathing's overrated anyway."
She shook her head, setting a plate of eggs, rice, and vegetables in front of him. "I swear, if you start coughing up a lung at this table, I'm throwing you in the shower fully clothed."
Taro grunted in acknowledgment, already shoveling food into his mouth. Mama's cooking was clean—lean protein, fresh vegetables, none of the fried or creamy stuff she used to spoil him with—but every bite hit differently now. It felt like fuel.
She watched him for a moment, her arms crossed, a spatula still dangling loosely from her fingers. "You know," she started, her tone casual but weighted, "it's only been a week since you asked for my help, but you're starting to look like someone I don't recognize."
Taro didn't look up, chewing through another mouthful. "Good. Means it's working."
"That's not what I meant," Sofija said, softer this time. She sat across from him, studying his face like she was searching for something. "You're pushing yourself hard, Taro. I see it in the way you walk through the door at night, the way you can barely drag yourself up the stairs sometimes."
Taro set his fork down, glancing up at her. "I'm fine, Mama."
Her eyes narrowed. "Fine isn't collapsing into bed like you're a corpse."
"I'm not collapsing," Taro shot back "I'm just… falling into position. It's called recovery."
Sofija exhaled through her nose, clearly unimpressed. "Recovery, huh? You'll be recovering in a hospital bed if you don't slow down."
"I can't slow down," Taro said, his voice steady now. He leaned back slightly, wiping his mouth with the edge of his sleeve. "Tryouts are Monday. I can't afford to stop."
"You can't afford to break either," Sofija said sharply, pointing the spatula at him like a weapon. "What's the point of all this if you can't even stand up when the time comes?"
Taro looked at her for a long moment, his gaze steady. "I'll stand up," he said simply. "Don't worry about that."
She stared at him, her brow furrowed, before letting out a quiet sigh. "You're stubborn."
"Runs in the family," he shot back with a small grin, shoving another forkful into his mouth.
Sofija rolled her eyes but didn't press further. "Your uncle would be proud of you," she said after a moment, her tone softer now. "But he'd also tell you to take care of yourself. So I'm telling you for him."
Taro swallowed, pausing mid-bite. For just a second, he let the words settle before brushing them off with a shrug. "I'm fine, Mama. Really."
She stood, ruffling his damp hair as she passed him on the way to the sink. "Fine. Just don't prove me wrong."
"Wouldn't dare," he said, grinning faintly as he reached for his glass of water.
Sofija let out a quiet laugh, though the edge of concern hadn't fully left her face. "Eat up. You've got enough plates to lift without going hungry."
By Friday, the classroom had become tolerable. The whispers that had filled the room earlier in the week had faded into scattered glances, most of them quick and unsure. The ones who had dared to test him on Monday now avoided his gaze entirely. They weren't cowards, exactly, but they had learned to pick their battles—and Taro wasn't a battle they could win.
Taro settled into his seat, his bag slumping against the desk. The lessons blurred into the background as the teacher's voice droned on. Numbers and formulas filled the board, but Taro's attention was elsewhere.
I've done this before. College had drilled it into him, and though the details were different, the principles were the same. He didn't need to waste time rehashing things he already knew.
Instead, his notebook was filled with something far more important: strategy. His pencil moved steadily, sketching out plays, ideas for movement, adjustments for a team that didn't yet exist.
Basketball isn't just about talent, he thought, tapping the page lightly. It's about precision. Timing. Everyone doing their job.
The bell rang, cutting through his thoughts. Taro stood, his bag slung over one shoulder as the other students filtered out. He ignored the few cautious glances sent his way in the hallway, his steps slow and deliberate as he walked towards the gym.
By Friday, Taro had found his rhythm in the school gym. He had learned how strong he was and now was focused on pushing boundaries, testing how far he could go. He moved with purpose, each set deliberate, every rep building on the last.
His size was still a factor. He wasn't lean, not yet, but the fat that had once defined him was starting to feel like armor. The muscles beneath were becoming more pronounced, a foundation of raw strength that hadn't been there before.
The regulars had noticed.
At first, it was just glances. Side-eyes when he loaded plates onto the bar, faint nods of acknowledgment when he powered through another set. By the end of the week, the nods had become almost routine, a silent agreement.
But not everyone saw it that way.
The baseball team was gathered near the dumbbells, their voices cutting through the low hum of the gym. They weren't regulars—they came in groups, loud and chaotic, more interested in joking around than actual work.
Taro ignored them at first, focused on his warm-up, but their laughter grew louder as he approached the bench press.
"Yo, fatass!" one of them called out, his tone mock-friendly.
Taro didn't stop, didn't even look at him. He adjusted the bar, sliding another plate onto each side.
"Careful with that," another added, smirking as he leaned against the rack. "Try something easier, maybe."
The group burst into laughter, their voices carrying through the gym.
Taro finally looked up, his amber eyes locking onto the speaker. He didn't say anything, but the weight of his gaze was enough to silence the laughter for a moment. Then, without a word, he turned back to the bar and loaded more and more plates.
The baseball players exchanged uncertain glances, their smirks faltering.
Taro slid onto the bench, gripping the bar tightly. The cold steel felt solid beneath his hands, grounding him. He steadied his breathing, planting his feet firmly against the ground.
The bar came down slowly, the weight pressing against his chest, heavier than anything he'd lifted all week. His muscles burned as he pushed it upward, the plates clanging faintly as the bar rose.
He didn't stop.
The bar came down again, his arms trembling slightly before he drove it back up. Each rep felt like a challenge, his body screaming in protest, but he didn't falter.
By the time he racked the bar, sweat dripped from his forehead, his breath coming in sharp bursts. He sat up, grabbing his towel and wiping his face.
The gym had gone quiet.
The baseball players stood frozen, staring at the bar in stunned silence. It wasn't just the weight—it was the fact that Taro had tripled what they'd struggled to lift earlier.
One of them muttered something under his breath, but it was drowned out by the faint sound of people working out.
The regulars nodded to him as he stood, their acknowledgment silent but unmistakable. Taro didn't need words from them.
He grabbed his water bottle, twisting off the cap as Daigo Aoki approached. The third-year had been watching from across the gym, his sharp gaze taking everything in.
Daigo leaned casually against the rack, his tone calm but carrying a faint edge. "You need me to deal with those guys?"
Taro glanced at the baseball team, who were now pretending not to notice him. He let out a quiet snort, shaking his head. "Naw. They're not worth it."
Daigo smirked faintly, crossing his arms. "Fair. But if they try anything, let me know. I don't mind making a scene."
Taro chuckled softly, his grip tightening on the water bottle. "Appreciate it, but I've got it handled."
Daigo studied him for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, you do."
With that, he walked off, leaving Taro to finish his set.
Taro dragged the towel across his face, swiping at the beads of water that still clung to his skin. The bathroom mirror was fogged over, steam rising in lazy curls, but a single wipe of his palm revealed what he needed to see.
The reflection stared back at him, sharper than before.
His shoulders sat higher, broader, like they belonged to someone else. His arms were thick—solid—not just big for the sake of it. He turned slightly, his eyes narrowing as he took in his side profile. His stomach, while still there, was pulling back, no longer spilling forward. More away, he thought, running a hand across his damp shirtless torso, almost as if he needed to confirm it.
It wasn't gone, but it was shrinking, reshaping.
His jawline was less rounded, more defined—cutting through the remnants of softness that still lingered. The baby fat that used to hang there was losing its hold, piece by piece. He leaned closer.
Had he grown taller?
Taro smirked faintly, brushing his wet hair back. "Yeah," he muttered, his voice low but firm. "Hell yeah."
He let the towel hang around his neck as he turned away from the mirror. His body still ached, every muscle groaning under the week's relentless punishment, but he didn't care. Pain was the price. And the price was worth paying.
Tomorrow was tryouts. He wasn't done yet, not by a long shot—but when he stepped on the court, they would see it.
Taro cracked his neck, letting the smirk linger as he opened the door.
He was ready.